I don’t watch many videos, but I caught this one by Weezer on VH1 this morning and was amused at all the cameos and references. Clever.

I’m willing to risk it.  Happy, happy, happy birthday, Kathy!  I know you’re shunning birthdays from here on out, but you’re still getting ridiculous homemade shout-outs from me until you’re 90. Or until my old crinkly hands can’t make them anymore, since I’m older that you!

I try to tell you frequently, but in case I haven’t told you in the last 72 hours or so, you’re the best friend a girl could ask for, one of the few the makes me laugh so hard I can’t move and I’m so, so grateful to the Internet and blogging for giving us the opportunity to be friends.  I never thought when you installed my MT 1.5 or whatever that five years later, we’d have a book, a solid business and a thriving friendship. I love you infinity, asshole. xo

You’re the Captain to my Tennille. Or you can be Tennille. Whatever. 

Do you have a “type”?  I wouldn’t say I do, really.  If “funny” is a type, then perhaps I do, but I’ve dated a lot of different types of people. Men, women, black, white, short, tall, fat, thin, whatever.  I find all kinds of people attractive and despite my occasional mockery for humor’s sake, often look for the beautiful attributes in people before I look for the flaws.  Heck, most of the time I find the flaws are the beautiful attributes.

In this vein, I rarely have ‘celebrity crushes’, because many celebrities tend to look the same, like cookie cutters of each other.  I’ve never really been one to idolize famous people purely on aesthetics, unless you count that time I wallpapered my bedroom in pages torn from Tiger Beat when I was twelve.  (Ricky Shroeder fans represent!  Don’t pretend you didn’t wear those black rubber bracelets, too.)

But there are a few that I harbor chronic crushes on, despite the ravages of time on their appearance or careers.  One is James Spader. I will always and forever love James Spader. I have no idea why. I don’t care if he’s sporting a Members-Only jacket and feathered bangs in Pretty in Pink, “disciplining” Maggie Gyllenhall in Secretary (“foo-oou-uur pee-eaa-sss!” Rawr!) or blathering on self-importantly on Boston Legal… I love James Spader. Mmm mmm.

Kevin Spacey is another.  I forgive him his recent role-selection transgressions (with perhaps the exception of K-PAX — that might be unforgivable) and faithfully see most of his movies, though I’m sure there are a few that have slipped through the cracks.  There’s just something sexy about Kevin Spacey. 

What’s strange is that my crushes on women do tend to be more aesthetic and/or about a sense of style. Is that sexist? Superficial? Or is it just because women are generally… well, prettier?  I don’t know. I have assorted crushes on women… everyone from Isabella Rosallini to the more obvious Selma Hayek.  But lately (and I feel kinda weird about this one for some reason) it’s Katy Perry.  She’s just cute as a button and I love her vintage look.  It doesn’t help that she sings about kissing girls. That’s just not fair.

Speaking of Pretty in Pink, I had such a thing for Jon Cryer in that film. Duckie Dale was like, my dream man growing up. Some may call that weird.  But I have friends with weirder celeb crushes.  *cough* Caroline Rhea *cough* Steve Buscemi *cough*

You know who you are. 

Yesterday, I was sitting in the waiting area of my doctor’s office, quietly minding my own business, watching Forces of Nature on the waiting room television.

There was a bohemian-looking couple sitting next to me, speaking rapidly to each other in Spanish, but it didn’t sound like Mexican Spanish.  Slightly different cadence. Anyway, they were a charming couple, chatting away, giggling with each other, when the nurse comes out the door and calls the woman away. The man waited with two seats between us and each of us just kept to ourselves comfortably.

About a minute or two later, the door opens again and this meek, mousy little woman came out. She had thin blonde shoulder-length hair, an oversized windbreaker zipped up to her chin, baggy jeans and coke-bottle glasses.  She started to walk past the guy next to me, then turned to him, rummaging in her pocket.  “It didn’t turn out well,” she said.  “I got herpes and a yeast infection. Here’s your lighter back,” extending her hand.

  Excuse me?

I didn’t want to look over there, lest she engage me in conversation, so I just looked straight ahead trying to determine with peripheral vision if anyone else heard her say that. She didn’t whisper or anything!  She just said it, matter-of-factly, like she was announcing she just bought eggs and butter.

The guy initially reached for the lighter, but changed his mind and said, “Oh, um… my girlfriend has an extra lighter. You can hang on to that.” Then she just turned and walked away without another word. No “thank you”, no “see you”, no “sorry for telling you about the state of my vagina”.  Nothing!

We both just sat there in stunned silence for a few seconds. I finally glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and he had this completely baffled look on his face.  I said, “Well.  That was a lot of information.” To which he replied, “Yes, I know. We only spoke when she asked to borrow my lighter. I had no idea that entitled me to full medical disclosure.”

I am so glad I don’t smoke anymore.

I doubt you’ll find it shocking when I tell you that as a kid, I was notorious for spouting off random things I’d heard people say, regardless of appropriateness.

When I was 9 or 10, while having dinner at my friend Julie’s house, I exclaimed “Hotsie, Totsie, I’m a Nazi!” because my potatoes au gratin scalded the roof of my mouth.  Did I realize what I was saying was offensive?  Of course not. I had no idea what a Nazi was, really.  In fact, I don’t even know where I heard that phrase… still can’t figure it out. And I’ve never heard that phrase since. Needless to say, Julie’s dad gave me a huge earful about the horrors of World War II over strawberry shortcake that night.  Never said that again, no indeed.

When I was smaller, probably around 4 or 5, I was playing with my cousins at my grandmother’s house.  We were in the backyard at some kind of family gathering, perhaps it was Easter.  I remember wearing a ruffly dress and those socks with the lace around the edges.  Lots of people were there and I remember lying in the grass on my back as my older male cousin (in his late teens, I think) was sitting in a chair holding my foot in his lap, buckling my Mary Janes.

Cute, right? Innocent. Until I loudly (and proudly!) asked, “Can you see my pussy?”

At the time, I had no idea what a pussy was, what it did or if there was a cat involved. I just knew I’d heard it somewhere… probably cable, and that it was kept under a girl’s pretty dress.  I think, in hindsight, I thought they were panties because I remember being really proud of my panties that day.  I’d gotten a new set of Days of the Week underpants and I’d been showing them to every grown-up who would indulge me, like kids do.

The word sliced through the festivities like a machete. If ever there was a moment for the cliché record scratch, that was it.  I remember my cousin got this really freaked out look on his face, dropped my foot and looked around for a grown-up to save him.  My mom came rushing over and took me inside to discuss with me what is and isn’t appropriate for a young lady to say.  Apparently, pussy is not one of those things.

What “innocent” things have you said as a kid that got you in trouble?

Get a cup of joe because I’m about to own up to something that I’m not all that proud of.  It’s important to me to write about, if not for catharsis, then to be an example.

Back when I first started blogging back in 2003, the whole blog community was so different. Those not in-the-know didn’t know what a blog was — it sounded foreign to them, like a fad — so I wasn’t too worried about people finding it.  It felt safe, for the most part. And while I used my real name for the longest time, even if only my first, there was this veil of anonymity that blogging provided.

I felt like the blogging world was a sort of bubble.  Sure, there was some nasty Blog Valley High-type drama during my first 6 months on the scene.  There was some gossip and some mudslinging and the occasional random troll.  But overall, while a few of those things hurt me personally — some of them quite deeply — my blog was a rapidly growing fish in a relatively small pond.  These things happen.  I didn’t start my blog with popularity in mind, but I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it. I had a lot of readers, enjoyed reading lots of blogs and for the most part, felt I was well-liked.

I thought I was always authentic.  I truly believed that I was 100% myself.  But I think if I was really being honest, I would say I was about 80% myself. Maybe 90%. I didn’t really know who “myself” was.  I was 29 years old and had recently ended a very bad relationship. I was in a period of self-discovery at that point in my life, a transition… so this popularity, while not totally foreign to me (gregarious is my middle name!) was definitely a much needed ego-boost.

As my traffic grew, sometimes I found myself writing for an audience.  Now, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. I still do that, but I’m in such a different place with myself and in my life that I do feel I am 100% authentic and true to myself.  My writing is what it is and anyone who knows me knows that I am as I present myself on my blog. I firmly believe that.

I’m embarrassed to admit that there were times back in the day that the desire to write something really entertaining and popular superseded my soul’s better judgment.  Fortunately, it didn’t happen but once or twice, but both times, I can see where I wasn’t just entertaining.  I was mean.

Continue reading →

Kathy and I were discussing her upcoming birthday and she’d mentioned that she just didn’t want any more birthdays. That 32 seemed like a nice stopping point and hey, how ‘bout it, Science? 

That got me thinking that I’ll be 35 this year, which doesn’t really bother me that much… it’s just time and has no bearing on who I am as a person and frankly, aside from a few very soft, oh-so-distinguished crows feet, I don’t look a day over 33. 

But then later, while I was filling out my review for Sex & the City on MovieTickets.com, they asked me to choose my age.  And, as I was selecting 30-34 from the drop-down menu, that’s when it hit me. 

In a few months, I’ll have to check the next box. The next box.  35-40.  Thirty-five to forty. Panic ensued. Crunches were done. Moisturizer was applied.  And then I refilled my coffee and got a grip.

Feh. Who cares? One more year doesn’t make you any less fabulous.  Besides, who doesn’t love the Early Bird Special?

In one of our afternoon tangents, I mentioned to Kathy that the song Fever (made popular by Peggy Lee) is pretty funny if you swap “fever” with “beaver”… because sometimes my sense of humor is stuck on pubescent.  I’d just stumbled across it in my media player and I was reminded of a time an old friend of mine and I were in Express at the mall and we heard some Euro remix of it while we were waiting to be rung up.  We could swear they were saying “bevah!”, which of course, sent us into the giggles.

So, I’m telling Kathy about this and we’re listening to the song together, laughing about the lyrics: “chicks were born to give you beaver”, “beaver till you sizzle” and “beaver in the mornin’, beaver all through the night” being our faves… with “what a lovely way to burn” not far behind.  If it burns, you have a situation.  Anyway, after a few minutes, Kathy says, “I would laugh so hard if someone did an animated beaver to this song.”

Well.  Who knew?